


Marvolo

by DHoffryn



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff, Found Family, Gen, Kid Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-03
Updated: 2019-05-03
Packaged: 2020-02-16 20:37:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18698719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DHoffryn/pseuds/DHoffryn
Summary: What would have happened if the Weasleys' great-grandmother had gone to the orphanage when Tom was five, instead of Dumbledore waiting until he was eleven?





	Marvolo

Ginevra Weasley was standing in the courtyard of a large, square building surrounded by high railings. It was raining, and she felt the hard sting of the wind as it hit her cold, wet face. Her hair fell into her eyes. She pulled a frayed old ribbon from her pocket – it had once been used to wrap a birthday present for Septimus – and used it to tie her hair back.

 

She had to look presentable, after all. She was meeting her son for the first time.

 

She climbed the steps to the entry way of the building and knocked on the door. An old woman answered.

     

“Good evening,” the woman said. “Do you have an appointment?”

     

“No, no,” Ginevra answered. “I simply came as soon as I heard! I’ve been out of town, you see…” Ginevra laughed to herself at the use of the phrase. _Out of town_ , yes. In the deepest corners of the Hungarian forests, she meant, deeply engaged in her work with the local Horntails. She and her son – Septimus – had created a life there, surrounded by a makeshift family of dragons and forest giants, out of the way of the wizarding world where even the owls couldn’t find them.

     

Luckily, Albus Dumbledore eventually had.

     

The woman gave her a confused look – Ginevra was not unaccustomed to such looks from strangers – but let her in and out of the rain.

\---

     

“So, dear, how can I help you?” the woman – Mrs. Cole, apparently – asked when they were settled with tea in her office. Ginevra shivered slightly from the cool draft in the office, clutching the warm mug fervently. It had been a long time since she had been in the presence of Muggles, so she was no longer used to being unable to use magic to dry herself.

     

“Yes, yes,” she said, only slightly less flustered for being out of the rain. “I’m so sorry, I came as soon as I heard. It’s just that – well, I understand that there is a young boy here – a Tom? Riddle? He was left here about five years ago, is that right?”

 

Mrs. Cole stared, and for a moment Ginevra was worried her information had been all wrong. But then the matron of the house seemed to shake herself out of it.

     

“You know of Tom?” she asked, her face the picture of shock. “Are you… family?”

           

“I certainly hope to be,” Ginevra answered.

           

Mrs. Cole smiled.

\---

           

Mrs. Cole knocked on a door in the long, gray hallway. She entered without waiting for a response.

           

“Tom?” she said. “You’ve got a visitor. This is Mrs. Weasley. She’s come to tell you – well, I’ll let her do it.”

 

Ginevra came to the doorway and saw a young boy, perched on the bed, staring up at her with trepidation. _Amazing_ , she thought in awe. _He looks just like his father._ The thought gave her a sudden flashback to some memories she didn’t care to recollect, but she banished the image immediately. Tom was not his father.

           

“How do you do, Tom?” she asked. “My name is Ginevra.”

           

The boy hesitated, but nodded in return. “Nice to meet you,” he mumbled.

           

“Can I come in?” she asked gently.

           

Another nod. Ginevra entered slowly, and cocked an eyebrow as Mrs. Cole closed the door behind her. She was alone with the boy, not something she would have allowed of a stranger were she the matron of the house.

           

Then again, she supposed it was fortuitous given the conversation she was about to have.

           

Ginevra sat herself on the floor in front of the boy.

           

“Do you know why I’m here?” she asked.

 

The boy shook his head. “Are you from the asylum?”

 

“No, sweet boy, I’m not from the asylum. I knew your mother,” she said. His eyes widened.

 

“You did?” he asked.

 

“Very well,” she replied. “She was a wonderful woman, you know. A good friend.”

 

“She’s dead,” Tom said, staring at his socked feet on the bed. “She died when I was just a baby.”

 

“I know,” Ginevra said, heart aching with grief. “Have you heard much about her?”

 

A head shake. “They didn’t know anything,” he said. “Except she left me here. And she wanted me to be named _Tom_.” He flinched as he said it, setting alarm bells of in Ginevra’s mind.

 

“You don’t like the name Tom?” she asked.

 

“There are a lot of Toms,” he shrugged. “My father was called Tom.”

 

She wondered if the boy knew – or remembered – anything about his father. Perhaps that was where his reaction came from. This was not the time to mention it, however.

 

“Would you like to use a different name?” Ginevra asked. “At least while you’re with me.”

 

The boy narrowed his eyes at her in suspicion, but after a few seconds, seemed to make up his mind. “Marvolo,” he said firmly.

 

“That’s a beautiful name, Marvolo,” she smiled.

 

“That was my grandpa’s name,” he said. “There aren’t a lot of Marvolos.”

 

“That there aren’t – it’s a very special name for a very special kid.” The boy – Marvolo’s – gaze snapped up suddenly from where it had drifted back towards his feet.

 

“You know about that?” he asked, trepidation clear in his voice. “About how I’m… special?”

           

“I sure do,” Ginevra replied, smiling. “From what I can tell, you’re a very smart young boy, and polite, and if you’re anything like your mother, you’ll grow up to be extremely kind. Those all sound like very special qualities to me.”

           

But Marvolo just looked disappointed. “Oh,” he said. “Right.”

           

Ginevra realized in that moment that perhaps Albus had been right – perhaps Marvolo did take after his mother after all.

           

“Marvolo,” she asked. “When I said you were special – what did you think I meant?”

           

He hesitated.

           

“Did you mean anything like… this?” she asked, and opened her hand slowly, palm up. As she did, a bright green flower with silver threads bloomed there, a tribute to her childhood mentor.

           

Marvolo stared. “You can do that too?” he asked.

           

Ginevra just nodded patiently. She waited for the boy to speak.

           

“I can do all sort of things,” he mumbled, but Ginevra could see the excitement starting to bloom on his face. “I can make things move without touching them. I can make animals do what I want them to do, without training them. I can make bad things happen to people who annoy me. I can make them hurt if I want to.” He was trembling now, and Ginevra couldn’t tell if it was primarily from excitement at the things he could do, or from fear.

           

She herself was afraid – but not of Marvolo or his powers. Rather, she feared to know who had made this tiny boy so desperate that he felt the need to use magic – magic he didn’t even understand he possessed – to make them hurt.

           

That was a question for another day, though. They had just met, after all.

           

“Do you know what else you can do?” she asked, smiling conspiratorially.

           

Marvolo smiled back. “No,” he said. “What?”

           

Slowly, very slowly, she reached her hand towards the window, and quietly whispered, “Accio pastries.” Nothing seemed to happen in the room for a moment, but then, to Marvolo’s apparent wonder, through the window floated two perfect cream tarts, entirely unaffected by the rain still pouring outside.

           

Ginevra picked the tarts out of the air and handed one to Marvolo. The tentative smile on his face widened into a full-blown grin.

           

“Can you teach me?” he asked.

           

“Of course,” she replied.

\---

 

Marvolo Riddle apparated on the lawn and took in his surroundings. Just as he remembered it – the multi-coloured flowers growing in the garden, the holes all around the grass from where that pesky Niffler wouldn’t stop burrowing, the Quidditch trunk pressed up against the old wood frame of the house. There were no brooms to be spotted, so Fred and George must be off in the fields somewhere practicing.

           

He took a deep breath in through his nose. He was home.

           

Walking into the Burrow, Marvolo’s eyes widened in surprise as he was immediately accosted by two small figures running through the house. His bones creaked at the strength of the hug they gave him, one of them on each hip – he was certainly getting old.

           

He wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world, of course.

           

“Grandpa Marvolo! Grandpa Marvolo!” the kids were cheering, and he returned their hugs in earnest before picking them both up – they were getting heavier, too – and carrying them the few steps to his armchair, where he could rest his knees.

           

“Well, hello there!” he said after he was settled. “Excited to see me, are we?”

           

Ron nodded enthusiastically. Ginny didn’t respond, but from the way she was climbing up his side and reaching for the tip of his hat, he was fairly confident she agreed.

           

“Where are your parents?” he asked.

           

“Dad’s at work still, and Mom’s out back picking apples for dessert. She’s making crumble!” he exclaimed.

           

“Wow, crumble?” Marvolo said. “You’ll have such full bellies! Whatever will I do with these?” His cloak opened and out flew three cream tarts.

           

“Ooh, tarts!” squealed Ginny, turning suddenly to reach for the tart and falling into Marvolo’s lap instead. He laughed and floated one of the tarts to land on her tummy.

           

“We’ll save room,” Ron said seriously, grabbing a tart for himself. He bit into it energetically.

           

“Just don’t tell your mother,” Marvolo whispered.

           

“Grandpa,” Ron said after he’d taken a couple of bites of the tart and had calmed slightly. “Could you show us the story again of your first ever cream tart? When you met Great-Gramma Ginevra?”

           

“She’s my n-n-nameskate!” Ginny laughed, and Marvolo wondered at who was teaching her such fancy new words. Percy, most likely.

           

“You’re right, she is!” Marvolo said, poking Ginny on the nose. “Hmm… I guess I can show you the story… I’ll just have to rustle up the memory. One minute, yes? Okay… Accio Pensieve!”


End file.
